


Flood

by Miss_Mahlzahn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, S01E03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Mahlzahn/pseuds/Miss_Mahlzahn
Summary: Crowley leaves the site of the arc to get himself drunk. Half an hour into the fig-wine, he senses the angel entering the same tavern.





	Flood

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Die Flut](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/498595) by MissMahlzahn. 



Crawly couldn’t stand to wait around the arc much longer. Disgusted with the angel and Everyone Else, he walked away.

Half an hour later, he was already through two amphoras of fig wine, when he felt Aziraphale’s presence again. Well, not felt, why would he feel him, more kind of heard, possibly, or smelled, maybe. Anyway, same difference.

“Of all the seedy little tavernas in all the streets in all of Babel, he walks into mine!”, Crawly complained to the table. He didn’t look around. Didn’t care. He was in no mood to suffer the sanctimonious git right now, not when said git would keep going to exculpate the atrocity at foot.

Crawly left his head buried in his arms (having recently discovered that he could easily drink through a bent wheat straw without having to move a limb).

Aziraphale, in measured tones, ordered wine, which he took to a table hidden in a corner.

Wasn’t Crawly’s fault that he could still hear him. Hadn’t asked to have good hearing. Could hardly stop himself from hearing, could he? Well, he probably could, but certainly not in his current state of don’t care.

Anyway.

Couldn’t help hearing the angel. His … quiet weeping?

Swaying slightly, Crawly turned around.

The angel sat slumped over, head buried in his hands, shoulders trembling ever so lightly.

The cup of wine seemed untouched.

Whyever was he weeping?

With some effort to keep himself upright, Crawly staggered over to the corner.

Sat down heavily across from Aziraphale, nearly knocking down the wine cup with his own jug in the process.

The angel looked up.

His face was a mess, tears and snot and all.

“You’re a mess!”, Crawly announced.

Aziraphale looked away, quietly rubbing his sleeve over his eyes.

Glanced shortly at Crawly, looked down again, composed himself, sighed.

Then: “Hello.” Not unkind.

Outside, the rainstorm picked up force.

Crawly felt slightly at a loss.

“Why are you crying, you git?” Ah, his mouth obviously felt otherwise. Oh, as well.

The angel looked puzzled, stared at Crawly with a light frown (still not unkind, mind you).

Then, despondently: “How could I not? They all are going to die!”

Crawly huffed: “So? Your side deemed them an abomination, to be wiped from the surface of the earth!” His voice had grown louder at the last words, his agitation making him stand up, and a couple of heads turned in their direction. “Mind your own business!”, the demon exclaimed loudly, making Aziraphale pull at his sleeve.

Crawly sat down. More quietly, he added in a bitter voice “Rejoice, angel!”, before he leaned back, crossing his arms.

A shaky, strange looked fluttered across the angel’s face, leaving as quickly as it had come, followed by tired resignation.

Feeling somewhat vindicated, Crawly’s stare mellowed.

He took a swig from his jug and stood up, intending to leave, possibly for Australia. Some nice rock paintings, in Australia.

“Please, stay.” Aziraphale’s voice, gentle, tired.

Crawly sat down, again.

Three hours later, when the street outside was already transformed into an ankle-deep bed of mud, the floor around their table was covered in empty jugs and amphoras.

The demon and the angel hadn’t spoken a lot, and the sparse words they did use were mostly just to order more and more potent forms of alcohol.

Unsurprisingly, they were as drunk as they could possibly be without discorporating on the spot. Or, to be more precise, Aziraphale was. Crawly, on the other hand, was not, not since half an hour ago. By that time Aziraphale had already started weeping again, but it took two more cups to make him speak.

Crawly found himself intrigued enough that he wanted to understand, so he sobered up. Which was for the best, really, because being drunk was no state to be in to hear the angel confessing haltingly that right this morning, he, Aziraphale, had been angered by a merchant trying to charge him twice the usual amount for something because he thought the angel to be a foreigner, and that he, Aziraphale, exasperated by the mocking stance the merchant had adopted, had then, … then, after paying, … had loudly called upon the sinner the Righteous Judgement of the Lord.

Right this morning…

There might have been more that the angel had said, but Crawly didn’t catch it anymore - flood of tears, lack of pronunciation.

In the end, he even started to feel sorry for the angel.

High time to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker. Corrections (and Beta-readers) welcome. Be kind.


End file.
